Three Reasons
by Lawless67
Summary: Set post-Swan Song. Dean doesn't like the man he's become after Sam's sacrifice. Only three things can save his soul and bring him home. Rated T for language.


A/N: I needed some schmoopy comfort after watching some of the devastating season finales (haha, all of them). This idea just wouldn't leave me alone until I finished. I own nothing except my OC. Warning-this was written super late at night so sappiness and perhaps mistakes are to be expected. This is my version of the Winchester happily ever after. Read on, I love reviews!

Her name was Remington, like the gun, and she shook him every time he looked at her.

He'd never expected to feel something like this, something that stole his breath and weakened his knees and clutched tight around his heart. He'd gone years without that kind of weakness that was somehow strength, never knowing he needed it. Of course, he'd known some form of that soul-rattling feeling with his baby brother, but it was so vastly different from what he felt now. It's like seeing the Grand Canyon and the Atlantic Ocean for the first time. Each one leaves him awed and devastated at his own smallness in a completely singular way. And besides, Sam was gone, for a long time, and that had left a crater so big he felt someone could've seen straight through him. After the showdown with Lucifer and Michael, he'd lost himself. More importantly he'd lost Sam, and really he didn't know if there was a difference between the two. He'd tried to go back to Lisa, like he'd promised Sam, but even the thought of sitting in that pretty house, in all its normalcy, pretending he wasn't falling apart made him sick and sweaty and breathless. Sitting there outside the city limit sign, he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, gasping and choking for air he couldn't seem to pull into his lungs. He couldn't breathe again until he'd turned the car around.

He hadn't stopped for a long time after that. He no longer hunted, only drifted, killing the supernatural when it was convenient and he felt like it. When it was one or neither, he drank. And when he drank, he fought. There was none of the good buzz a few beers brought on now. He drank to forget, hitting the whiskey, and God knew what else, hard and fast. But the loss of a brother, a part of his soul, didn't drown with his motor and cognitive skills, so he tried bruises next. He found that pain on the outside temporarily surpassed pain on the inside, and he craved it like the next hit of the most elusive drug. He hustled pool and poker and whatever else with obviousness; hit on women he knew were taken, and collected his payment in the dullness of pain that refused to reach past the surface. Before 3 months had passed, he'd received more scars than a prizefighter, and some area of his skin seemed to be permanently marred by blue and black.

He'd traced a destructive path north from Kansas, back down the Mississippi, and most of the way across Texas. When he reached the little dive bar a few miles outside of El Paso, the high was running thin. He was itching for a fight and there were enough willing to oblige him. What he wasn't ready for was the .45 his opponent's buddy pulled on him. The sharp bite of the bullet in his side was surprisingly welcome. Oh it hurt something fierce, but the for a single moment, he could finally, _finally_, ignore that crater gaping inside of him. He embraced the silence after the gun's retort and the blessed silence in his head. And then she spoke.

He'd noticed her when he walked in—who wouldn't—but the worn chestnut bar between them was a daunting barrier when he couldn't dredge up enough effort for conversation. She looked to be about 26 or 27, medium height, and slender. Her light brown hair was caught high in a lazy tail, curls brushing well past the shoulders of her black V-neck. When she stepped back from the bar to reach for a bottle on one of the shelves, he admired the way her faded jeans hugged her behind and followed her long legs down to those small, scuffed cowboy boots. He wasn't dead, after all, and a man was allowed to look.

There was an old Clint Black song on the juke and she did a short two-step with the bus boy that had the teen blushing to the roots of his hair. After slapping a couple of longnecks down in front of his neighbors, she turned her gaze on him. High cheekbones and elfin features completed the picture. Her eyes were a fascinating shade of blue-gray, lashes dark and full.

"What'll it be, cowboy?" The tone was light, but the understanding in those pretty eyes made meeting them difficult. He turned his gaze to the arresting shape of her mouth.

"You can make it Dean. It's me and Jack tonight. Make it a double, and a phone number if you're so inclined," he replied in the flirtatious manner that implied she'd be crazy not to be.

One corner of those lips tipped up, but the eyes still held that too-knowing expression as she poured.

"I don't know, Ace, you're looking a little rough at the moment." She tapped a finger to her own cheekbone, eyeing the purpling bruise that ran under his left eye. "Could be you're the kind of man my poor, dear mama used to warn me about," she teased.

He quirked a humorless grin. "Could be."

"Well, never let it be said that Remington Cage listened to good advice when she heard it. You sit tight, and we'll see what we see."

"I'll save you some of the bottle, Miss Cage," he toasted her.

"See that you do, Ace," she smiled. "And you can make it Rem."

The quick touch and warmth of her hand on his startled him. He realized with a tiny pinch of regret that it was the first gentle, _kind_ human contact he'd received since…since. Before he could reciprocate, the warmth was gone and she was moving back down the bar, pulling drinks as she went.

With her retreat, the ache snuck back in around the edges of the hole, unsmoothed by the whiskey in his glass.

An obnoxious whistle sounded practically in his ear, and he turned to the annoyance. The man to his left stuck out like a sore thumb. His blond hair was gelled and shaped, his colorful shirt tucked in beneath a shiny, polished buckle, his jeans far from faded and his boots obviously brand new. He was eyeing Remington's jean-clad backside in a lecherous manner. His similarly dressed friend copied him. Stupid rich assholes. They should've taken daddy's money and stuck with the country club. Dean rolled his eyes and went back to his glass.

"Hey, beautiful, come over here. I need to order a tall, cool drink of water," Blondie called. The two guffawed.

Remington's glance was withering. "I'll be with you _gentlemen_ in a moment."

"Aw, c'mon, baby, I just want a taste, to start. Then I can decide if the brew meets my standards." Raucous laughter erupted again.

"As you can see, I'm with some other customers." Her voice was cold enough to give a man frostbite, and Dean grinned.

The man's expression grew cool, his mouth flat.

Rem took her time, stopping to help two more customers before moseying back to Blondie and his friend.

"What can I get you?"

The man leaned across the bar. "Look, sugar, when I come in for a drink, I want a drink, not some hussy who thinks she can sass me."

Dean sat poker straight on the stool now, but Remington's glance signaled him to stay put.

She smiled that Ice Queen smile, but her eyes flashed. "Well, sir, I suppose you may go to another establishment. Or hell. Either would suit me fine." She turned to go.

The man's hand darted over the bar, gripping vice-like around Rem's arm and hauling her up to her toes against the wood. "You listen here, bitch—"

Dean didn't hear any more, as the man was suddenly flying backwards, courtesy of his right hook.

The man had no more stumbled to his feet again when the sharp report of a revolver sounded, and Dean felt the grounding bite of a bullet.

The silence that had descended when the man touched Rem erupted and half a dozen men customers surged up from their seats.

Dean wasn't quite sure what he should do now that neither man seemed to be fighting back. In the midst of the chaos, he pressed a careful hand to where the blood ran from, sitting down gingerly on his stool and taking a healthy swallow of whiskey.

The unmistakable sound of a shotgun being primed restored quiet, if not peace.

Remington had boosted herself to sit on the bar, the gun held expertly in her hands.

She nodded to the large, weathered biker currently holding Blondie by the shirt collar. "Thanks, Burt, but I can handle it from here." Burt retreated. "You, frat boy, I never want to see you or your friend in here again. If I do, you'll leave sporting some buckshot to go with those designer jeans. Do I make myself clear?"

The man nodded, glaring and attempting to stop the flow of blood from his broken nose.

"Good. Get the hell outta my bar." They stumbled for the door. "Everyone return to your drinks," she called.

She spun to Dean. "You, come with me."

"I'm f—"

"If you say you're fine, I will bash you over the head with your own bottle. Now come on, Ace." She slid off the bar, sliding a supporting hand beneath Dean's elbow and guiding him into the back, ordering the wide-eyed bus boy to take over the bar as she went.

The door behind the bar led to a small kitchen and storage room, little more than a closet. Remington strong-armed him onto a stool and reached for the first aid kit he could see on the shelf.

Her hands were on him before he could prepare himself, and he was once again struck by the kindness in her touch. When she lifted his bloodied shirt over his head, he reveled in the fact that she didn't seem to want anything from him, not even berating him for bleeding all over her kitchen floor. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had touched him without the impatience of lust, couldn't remember a time when touch hadn't been a tool but a gift.

Her hands were small and warm, a contrast to his, as they replaced his where they'd been pressing against the hole in his side. With quick efficiency, she had cleaned, removed the bullet, cleaned, and stitched him up.

"How you doing there, slugger?" She asked as she gently sealed the wound with gauze and tape.

Even sitting on the stool, he was almost as tall as she was. He had the unexpected thought that if he stood up the softness of her hair would just brush under his chin.

"I've had worse. You didn't have do this, I could've taken care of it." He didn't know how to handle her kindness, and it made him rough.

She met his eyes. "I make it a habit to pay my debts. You were defending my honor, after all," she smiled. "Lucky for you, urban cowboy didn't have the best aim, just took a little bite out of your six-pack."

"That's a shame. I worked hard on that piece of art." For the first time in a long time the answering smile that wanted to quirk his lips was real. It was small, and it pained him some, but it was real.

He became aware that she was standing between his knees, her hand still resting over the bandage.

She sighed. "What I'm trying to say, in my own crappy way, is thank you. You got a last name?"

"It's Winchester."

The smile widened to a grin. "Winchester and Remington, what a pair. Well, Dean Winchester," the sound of his name on her lips was appealing, "Thank you." And with that, she did something that would've knocked him flat on his back, had he not been sitting. She stepped even closer, lifting her arms to gently encircle him, and pressed her soft cheek against his.

He sat frozen for several seconds, stunned and destroyed by the simplicity and gratitude in the gesture. He could smell her, a combination of bar smoke and flowery shampoo and woman. Without his permission, his hands came up to circle her in turn, the wideness of his palms nearly spanning her back.

It was strange to be so close to a human being that wasn't Sam. Strange, and for a moment the maw inside him seemed to pulse with a pain so great he could hardly stand it. But unlike the other fixes he'd tried—alcohol, other women, physical pain—she didn't seem to numb him. That horrible hole was still there, still hurt, but for once it seemed he could feel what was left of himself around it.

"You're welcome." And if his voice hitched slightly when he pressed his face into her shoulder, she didn't say anything.

He pulled back. "I'd better be going." He didn't want to.

"I don't think so, Ace. Friends don't let friends get shot and drive." Her head tipped to the side, considering. "And I'd like to think we're friends, wouldn't you? I've got a cot in the back for when old Merle has a few too many, but I'd say you earned it tonight."

He felt that punch of something strong around his heart again.

"Alright, then. I appreciate it. Remington."

Remington smirked over her shoulder at him. "Oh, I wouldn't be too thankful yet. You're buying me dinner tomorrow."

He followed her laugh through the door.

There were days when he woke up on his side of the bed disoriented and two breaths away from pulling the trigger on the Colt he still kept under his pillow. There were times when he looked in the mirror and didn't like what stared back at him. Some days he had no idea what he was doing, how he'd ended up here, with this beautiful woman sharing his bed and his home and his heart. All he knew was that she was warm and there and real. And she got to him, reached right inside him, in a way he couldn't even begin to describe.

This was one of the nights he couldn't sleep, not because of night terrors or the pain of injuries, but just because sleep was contrary and elusive, and something in the back of his mind seemed to pull him from the bed.

He didn't turn on the lights, not wanting to disturb her. She was curled loosely, hair spread across both of their pillows, more on his side than hers. He smiled. He didn't mind her practically sleeping on top of him. Moonlight filtered through the gauzy curtains on the window, illuminating her face. He paused to press a kiss to her hairline, then to the ring on her curled left hand, before moving across the cold floor.

The house they'd settled in was an old white two-story farmhouse, buried deep in the Texas hill country. The stairs creaked and the kitchen sink broke down every other week, but the foundation was sturdy. He could live with the blemishes, and, although she cursed like a sailor at the faulty sink, Remington could too. It was a good home to them, had been for nearly six months now. Sometimes he marveled that he hadn't even known her just over a year ago. He barely knew the man he was before her, but he recognized the potential in himself to become that man again, was terrified of it.

And for good reason.

But that man was gone for now, hopefully for good. He has two—well, three, really—good reasons not to return.

Dean eased off the last of the steps, coming to a halt at the open doorway to the small living room. It was crowded with a large, overstuffed couch, a recliner, and a coffee table covered with magazines and newspapers and the little crocheted things Rem liked to put everywhere. He snorted, amused at himself for even knowing what crocheting is. Finally, his eyes fell on the afghan-covered figure sprawled over the couch.

His brother slept on, unaware of his presence.

It hit him occasionally, a straight shot to the chest, a breathless, painful gratitude, that his brother was actually there. He'd shown up in Dean and Rem's yard one day, on his feet only because of Cas' strong grip on his arm. Dean had been repairing one of the steps on the front porch at the time. Their appearance had been so sudden he'd nearly put the next nail through his own hand. The rest of that day was a blur. He remembered only the feel of his brother's dead weight against him, grounding him, and yelling for Rem and the broken thank you he offered Cas over Sam's shoulder.

The first couple weeks had been the worst. Sam had slept fitfully, temperature hovering about 102, unsure of what was real when he woke. Dean hadn't left his brother's side, offering tactile comfort when Sam would allow him close enough, and murmuring a constant stream of reassurances when the visions of hell overlaid the real world. Eight days after Dean got his brother back, Sam finally broke. He seemed to finally weary of the wild swings he'd been directing at Dean and collapsed in an exhausted heap against his brother. Dean held him, and Sam buried his face in Dean's shoulder like he was trying to climb inside him, horrible, ragged sobs shaking his frame, whispering a broken circuit of _I'm sorry _and _please _and _Dean_. Dean only clutched him tighter, silent tears rolling down his own face as he met Remington's equally tearful gaze.

Things had gotten better after that. Sam wasn't the happy-go-lucky kid he'd been years ago, he'd never be that again—hell tended to do that to a man—but there were glimpses of that boy in the man. He still slept restlessly, often waking from nightmares, but that was to be expected. Close proximity to Dean seemed to be the only remedy for his night terrors, and Dean was perfectly okay with that. Sam gained back some of the weight he'd lost, although he was still on the skinny side, and the black smudges under his eyes began to fade. Though he was wary of anyone but Dean for a while, he seemed to like sitting in the kitchen with Rem now, watching her cook. The first time she'd run her fingers through his hair he'd stiffened, but allowed it. She hadn't been deterred. He would now permit her to hug him for several seconds at a time, even leaning into her touch. Dean rejoiced any progress Sam made. The hardships, the setbacks, meant nothing.

He had his brother back.

Sam slept stretched across the too-short couch, limbs flopped over the sides, and Dean smiled. Sam tended to curl tight when nightmares plagued him.

A small sound had him turning to the stairs. Remington stood between one step and the next, hair hopelessly tangled, wearing only one of his large shirts. She rubbed at her eyes like a child. She looked incredibly young, and his heart softened.

"You really should make yourself decent, Mrs. Winchester. You'll embarrass Sammy," he grinned.

She shot him a dirty look from eyes squinted with sleep. Moving past him, she began tucking Sam's long limbs underneath the afghan.

"Your brother is asleep, as you should be. Why are you even up at this hour?"

He shrugged as she ran her hand over Sam's head and kissed his cheek.

"Couldn't sleep."

She moved back to him, and he found himself staring at her. The t-shirt she wore dwarfed her, hanging loose except where it caught on the swell of her belly. It hadn't done that two weeks ago.

She looked at him knowingly. "Are you freaking out about the baby? Because it's okay if you are. I mean, I am, too. A little. It's a big deal, and I know we haven't been married that long, and a baby is a huge responsibility. This wasn't in the plan and I don't know how the hell to be a mom and—" He pulled her abruptly against him.

"It's gonna be okay," he murmured.

It hadn't seemed real, he supposed, until recently. At first he'd watched her body like a hawk, braced for the enormous belly, but when a couple months passed without change, he'd relaxed. Then last week she'd passed the fourth month mark, and the belly seemed to just appear one morning. It wasn't big, but very clearly there, and he'd taken to staring at it at night.

He could feel the bump against him now, and it scared the hell out of him, but it would damn well be okay.

He knew it had to be just as bad for Rem, probably worse—hell, she had a human growing inside her—so he only held her, and kept the worries inside his head.

Finally she drew back, looking down at herself and scowling.

"I'm fat."

It startled a laugh out of him, and she turned a glare on him. For the first time, he reached out and ran a hand over the belly, curious, and awed. Her eyes softened at the gesture.

"Slow down with the self-pity, sweetheart. You're barely half way."

She groaned. "Don't remind me. I cherish the fact that I can still see my feet."

He couldn't stop the smile that stretched across his face. He loved her, more in that moment than ever before, because she was Rem and she was carrying his child.

His child.

He guided her gently to the stairs. "C'mon, Mama, you should be in bed."

Her grin was unholy. "Only if you join me, Ace."

He laughed again and gave her rear a light smack to send her up ahead of him.

Feeling that clutch around his heart, Dean glanced to where his brother slept, arms and legs once more flung out of the blanket, face peaceful. He turned to follow his wife up the stairs, still smiling.

Life was good.


End file.
